


the rhythm between gods and lovers

by wttlpwrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, sad Steve, seeing colors when you realize you're in love with your soulmate, stupid hydra, they're gonna be okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wttlpwrites/pseuds/wttlpwrites
Summary: “They’re all so beautiful,” Bucky had said, that first night or maybe a few later. Steve had smiled, his arms tightening around Bucky. They’d been lying in bed, just holding each other. It didn’t matter, during those times, that they were in the middle of a war and they were in a too-small, uncomfortable bed and they were trying their damndest to be unseen. Steve was seeing everything for the first time all over again. He was experiencing it with Bucky, teaching him all the names of all the hues he found so gorgeous. Bucky wouldn’t stop raving about all the shades, wouldn’t stop brushing his lips against Steve’s new body and calling it godly. Sometimes Steve felt a pang, that it was only his body Bucky was seeing colors for. But he was too grateful to be too concerned.**Before the war, Steve was sure he'd be alone on his trip to hell. During, he was too exhilerated to be too worried. And after-- well. Steve was pretty sure he'd finally made it to those fiery pits all the priests had warned boys like him about.





	

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where soulmates see colors only after they realize they're in love with the other person.  
> -this took a real long time to write, thank u to everybody who encouraged me (listened to me rant)-

Steve’s seen color almost all his life. He was maybe ten years old and he looked at Bucky one day and suddenly the piece of grass he was twisting around his fingers was vibrant. He looked up and the sky was vivid, and when he ran home Ma’s eyes matched the sky and he started crying. 

 

“Steve? What’s wrong? Baby, what’s wrong?” Sarah was frantic, rushing over to him, and Steve just touched her dress (what color was it? what was it called?) with his delicate fingers.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed. His ma took him gently and sat him down, right on their floor. She hushed him and rocked him and felt even more helpless when he didn’t try and stop her.

 

“Stevie, tell me what’s wrong,” Sarah pleaded.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Steve whispered. After a few gasping breaths, he finally looked up at his mother. “I see ‘em, Ma. I can see all of ‘em. I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

 

“Oh, Steve,” she sighed with relief, and hugged him tighter. “There’s nothing wrong, sweetheart, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

 

“No! You don’t understand! Ma, it’s- it’s Bucky!”

 

She huffed out a short laugh. “I know.”

 

**  
  


It was a long while before Steve stopped waiting for Bucky. Every now and then, he’d check- see if maybe Bucky was just hiding them, like Steve. Like maybe he was just scared of what it’d mean for their friendship, too. 

 

He’d break out his tiny set of watercolors. They were left over from before the depression really hit- he’d gotten them for Christmas one year, when things were still okay. He’d paint a picture of Bucky, with red eyes and silver skin and lips as violent violet as sin. He’d sit there and when Bucky would inevitably come knocking, Steve would point to his picture and watch Bucky’s face. He’d watch it so carefully, for any little twitch that’d show he saw what was wrong with it.

 

He never saw anything out of order. Bucky’d smile real big, slap Steve on the back with “Great work, Stevie, looks just like me.”

 

Eventually the watercolors were whittled away to nothing, Steve started drawing in charcoal, and Bucky’d ruffle Steve’s hair with the same hand that had been tugging on some girl’s the night before. 

 

It wasn’t completely uncommon to have a soulmate who didn’t love you back. It happened often for people first figuring things out, when one person realized first and then there was the painful wait. That’s what Steve thought it was, in the beginning. Just the wait that was only an eternity because Bucky was still a little ways away. But Bucky didn’t have his colors, and if Steve’d been careful enough, Bucky didn’t know a damn thing. 

 

They were fifteen, maybe, and it was midnight out on the fire escape where the cold air only bothered Steve’s lungs a little. (Maybe it was later or earlier inside the apartment, but outside it was midnight, or whatever time it is when you spill all your secrets like air out of a balloon. Deflated.)

 

“We’ll find ourselves a good pair of girls, Stevie,” Bucky said, and Steve smiled a sad secret. “A good pair of girls, and then maybe we’ll see what all the fuss is about with those colors.” 

 

Steve could tell him the fuss- he could tell him and he wouldn’t have a single problem. He’d talk about fear that brews red, and about that violent violet purple that’s like the high note in an opera. But mostly, he’d talk about how safe he felt in the floods of blue from Bucky’s eyes. How calming it was to see the goddamn sunset in Bucky’s eyes, every day. 

 

Steve kept the fuss to himself though. It wouldn’t do any good to have Bucky knowing what Steve was like, how he thought about Bucky. He thought about Bucky the way Bucky thought about faceless brunettes. He thought about Bucky the way prayers plead for hope. 

 

They were maybe eighteen and they were in church. Steve hated it, hated walking into a house of God and knowing he was disappointing Him at every turn. Bucky was the one who dragged him there every Sunday, who listened to the service while looking down at his lap, who hung on to every word and every soft hymn. 

 

It was Bucky who left his sin at the door, who kept it outside of the sacred walls. Steve was the one who was hell-bound, who would have to look God in the eyes and beg for forgiveness. Steve carried his sin like a beacon, not to anyone outside of himself, but it was enough. Enough to remind him, every minute of every day, why he didn’t deserve his colors. He was tainted, and he was angry about it.

 

Angry enough that one Sunday it was Steve praying to God, thanking Him that Bucky hadn’t found him in that supply closet, with Tommy Phillips’ lips on his neck and hair in his fists. 

 

Tommy Phillips wasn’t the first, and wasn’t the last. None of them mattered, none of them were more than a faceless brunet.

 

**  
  


Steve was twenty-two when the draft began. 

 

He didn’t go a day after that without worrying. He loved Bucky, goddammit, and Bucky was going to be taken from him. So when he preached about wanting to enlist because good men were laying down their lives, it was never a lie. He never wanted those men to die in his place. And he believed in the freedom his country was supposed to stand for. 

 

But mostly, he didn’t want Bucky to die in his place. Never, ever. He wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t survive watching the world turn back to gray as his stolen colors leached out of his eyes. 

 

Steve just wished Bucky knew, sometimes. Maybe if he knew, he wouldn’t say things like “Listen, punk, I can’t lose you, okay? I need you to stay here, so I’ve got something to come back to.” But Bucky didn’t know about Steve, didn’t know the color of his own eyes, and didn’t know how much that hurt.

 

Steve didn’t stop trying. No, he kept lying on enlistment forms and getting into fights and getting into bed with any other angry boy in Brooklyn. Bucky still hadn’t found out, which was a miracle, and Steve planned on trying until something gave. 

 

And then Dr. Erskine gave.

 

**  
  


Peggy might've been somebody he could love. He pretended, sometimes, when he closed his eyes. 

  
  


Steve had never been overly fond of dancing. But the girls were nice enough and all the important people Steve smiled for told him he was doing something good, and there was no shortage of angry boys whose hair he could tug on and necks he could bite.

 

In bed, with them- his eyes drifted. His lips lost their urgency. He stopped feeling that rush of adrenaline, that rush of vengeance. 

 

The color of their eyes was never quite right. Steve hated himself more than ever.

 

**  
  


_ All Bucky ever saw of it was- _

 

“You’re late,” the agent said with as much of a glare as she could manage, her ruby-red lips pursed.

 

“Couldn’t call my ride.” Steve was smiling too slyly, with too much flirt. Something flickered in Bucky’s vision, but he didn’t give it too much thought.

 

**  
  


_ And all Bucky ever knew of it was- _

 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky smirked, a faded and pathetic mimic of his old self.

 

“The right partner,” Peggy replied, eyes still cutting into Steve. Bucky’s eyes fuzzed for a minute, and he brushed it off as some after effect from that rat Zola. 

 

Peggy left, and Steve watched her go, fondly. Gentlemanly. It was too much for Bucky, and he made some comment about turning into the punk. Steve said something about her having a friend-

 

and Bucky’s head exploded. Or at least, that’s what he thought. Everything around him shifted into shades he’d never seen before, had never dreamed of. He pressed a hand against his eyes and brought it away, waiting for them all to leave. All of those- colors?

 

Were these the colors? God, had they been there all along?

 

“Steve,” he gasped, and Steve turned back just in time to catch him as he stumbled.

 

“Woah there, pal, what’s wrong?” Steve lead him outside, against the wall of the bar. “Buck? What’s going on, what hurts?”

 

Bucky could feel the wetness on his face, could see  _ everything _ . It was painful and beautiful and it was Steve who’d done this.

 

“Steve, I see them, Jesus-” he choked out. “God, Steve, it’s you. God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- if you could  _ see _ them -it’s you, I’m sorry-”

 

Steve interrupted. “I can see them, Buck. I’ve seen ‘em for years.”

 

Bucky’s head was reeling. Stevie was crying tears of his own, holding Bucky’s face in his hands. 

 

“Who is it? Who’d you see them for?” Bucky was so confused, he’d think it a dream if he thought he could’ve ever imagined what the colors would look like. If he could’ve ever imagined what they’d  _ feel _ like.

 

“Dumbass,” Steve breathed, and suddenly he was being held, engulfed in large arms. Bucky still didn’t understand, but maybe that was just because nothing was the same and it just took a minute to process.

 

“I’ll tell you all the colors. I love you so goddamn much, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

**  
  


“When did you know?” Bucky asked, later, in the darkness of Steve’s room. They were touching like secrets, in the way Bucky had crept into the captain’s quarters: softly, quietly, delicately. 

 

“I think we were ten. It's been so long, I forget.” Steve’s hands were firm against Bucky’s skin, his fingers calloused. 

 

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” Bucky’s eyes were wide open, and even in the dark he could see little facets of color that were lost to him before. 

 

“Thought you would've been disgusted. That you wouldn't want to be my friend anymore.” 

 

Bucky’s fingers pressed into Steve, a steely pressure on the captain’s waist and the back of his head. Steve let out a shaky breath and pushed himself closer to Bucky. 

 

Bucky kissed Steve on the forehead. “I didn’t know, before. I’m so sorry, Stevie, that it took me so long. But I woulda never pushed you away over this.”

 

Steve was quiet. Bucky threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair, pulling just a little bit. They hadn’t done anything other than kiss, and hold each other. It didn’t seem important to them right at that instant to go further. It was alright.

 

“I love you so much,” Steve said, for maybe the dozenth time. He was so quiet, and he held on to Bucky so tightly. “I’m sorry I did this.”

 

“Did what, Stevie?”

 

“Anything. Everything.”

 

“You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” 

 

It was. It would be, for a while.

 

**  
  


“They’re still there,” Steve said, the glass in his hand in danger of shattering. Every glance around him was a reminder, a bullet through his eyes, telling him over and over what he’d lost. 

 

“What’s still there?” Peggy asked him, a respectful distance between them that let Steve know she was there, but that she wasn’t there for anything but a safe presence.

 

“All his colors. They’re still there, haven’t gone away.”

 

Peggy kept her breath even at this new information. Now was not the time to fit all the puzzle pieces together, to rethink everything that had happened with this new lens. She paused herself for a minute, trying to find the right thing to say.

 

“Your love still exists. You haven’t stopped loving him, have you?”

 

Steve’s eyes were wild, accusatory. “Never. I’ve loved him since the day I was born.” He was born in a park, twisting a blade of grass around his fingers, ten years old and smiling. He died on a train in the mountains.

 

“The colors are there because of the love, not necessarily because of the person. As long as you love him, your colors will be there to tell you.”

 

Steve didn’t want them without Bucky.

 

**  
  


When he’d been with Bucky, before the war, it had been like nothing else mattered. They’d always tottered on the line between best friends, brothers, and something a little bit more complicated. Something too crude and yet too refined for God.

 

It wasn’t all the time. Usually, they’d just be Steve and Bucky, together and playing and kicking around like any other close pair of young kids. Sometimes, though.

 

Sometimes Steve wondered whether anything else was real.

 

He only ever felt real, only ever felt there, during those times when he and Bucky would just be lying there. On the floor or the ratty old couch or one of their beds. Those times, the rest of world didn’t matter- not the girls Bucky’d been chasing, not the boys Steve’d been fighting, not scars Bucky kept nor the rattling of Steve’s lungs. It was just Steve and Bucky and hands and feet and a nose pressed into a forehead, a pair of lips only just grazing a shoulder blade.

 

They didn’t talk about it. Not before the war, not while Bucky was off and Steve was stuck, not when both their worlds were alight with hue. It was too strange to word, to difficult for them. Too crude and too refined for God.

 

God wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

 

**  
  


Steve wondered whether or not he’d go to hell. He’d been bad enough, surely, had spoken the Lord down enough times. Had doubted whether or not He was up there, had screamed and yelled his throat goddamn raw in rage with the uncertainty.

 

People like Steve didn’t go to heaven. He didn’t think he’d saved enough lives to make up for all the ones he’d give to have Bucky back. He’d lived a life of anger and spite, and no matter how much good was in him it couldn’t wash out any of that.

 

He’d go to hell for the boys he’d had. He’d go to hell for his lack of faith. He’d go to hell for the deep red anger that brewed inside him, only red because it’d come after- with? -the colors. He’d go to hell because of how far he’d go to have his soul, his Bucky, back with him. He’d go to hell for crashing the goddamn plane.

 

But as it went down, he refused to think he’d go to hell for loving Bucky.

 

Maybe a better man could have made it work.

 

**  
  


The future was chaotic, colorful, careless. Too bright, like the people who had been in charge of the color schemes hadn't found their other halves. He hated it, he hated the people, and he hated waking up. He hated it all. 

 

He thought sometimes that the only thing he had never hated was Bucky. He never had, not even when it would have been so easy. When he could sometimes, for a second, glimpse the Bucky that the rest of the world must’ve seen- with all the flaws, all the shortcomings, everything that wasn’t as near to perfect as Steve might otherwise feel. Sometimes he could glimpse Bucky and not feel the crushing weight of his own love. But it was only ever a glimpse.

 

**  
  


The Battle of New York was something. Steve wasn’t sure what, wasn’t sure of anything, but it had happened and things had been said and his team was too goddamn loud. Or maybe it was just Stark.

 

“We’re not soldiers,” he’d said, and Steve felt pity.

 

**  
  


When he had his eyes closed, he could imagine that one day he’d have a thought or three, even in a row, that didn’t end with Bucky. When he had his eyes closed, he could think for a minute about whatever he had next. Whatever mission, whatever report, whatever press event- he could think it through if his eyes were closed.

 

As soon as he opened them, though, he caught the neon lights of the city, or the blue in his suit, or the red of Natasha’s hair. The colors always dragged him back, and he didn’t go a minute without wishing it was 1944.

 

Natasha was good, though. She snapped at him and bickered and ordered him, sometimes, to get his shit together. She tried to set him up sometimes, too, and probably had good intent.

 

One time, she said, “Jennifer from communications told me once she wouldn’t mind having coffee with you, getting to know you. Didn’t seem overly interested, either, in the creepy fan way. Seemed pretty sincere.”

 

Steve thought for a moment, about how he could tip her off. “Blondes aren’t my type.”

 

Natasha looked at him, smoothly and controlled, and not a line on her face suggested she was processing the new information. She knew, though, surely she picked it up, and there was a short silence in the car. They were on their way to SHIELD to get a mission brief, something too sensitive to send over digital communications.

 

“Brunettes more your style?” She asked. “Beautiful brown curls?”

 

Peggy flashed in Steve’s mind, which was most likely Nat’s goal. Maybe, if he’d been better, Peggy would have been the first brunette he’d seen.

 

“Saw brown well before I saw it paired with red lipstick and a solid right hook,” he said, “but that was a damn sight.”

 

**  
  


Steve didn’t think Natasha had found her soulmate. She was good with the words, knew which things were  _ purple  _ and which things were  _ green _ , but those were only words to her. She didn’t know the feeling it took to call something blood red, the breath it took to call something blue.

 

She was a damn good agent but she couldn’t fake it quite well enough for Steve. Steve’d seen colors as long as he was alive. His first breath was in a park, age ten. Steve knew the kind of damage it did, the flinching that came every time something bled orange and you couldn’t share it with your soulmate. Natasha flinched at nothing, eyes didn’t flicker when moving from one shade to another.

 

Steve didn’t think she was undamaged, that she didn’t have baggage to carry. But Steve was an expert in this kind of baggage. The weight of his colors far surpassed the weight of his new body. Steve had never carried anything heavier.

 

**  
  


Gabe, he remembered, had known that weight. They’d talked about it once or twice, in the quiet hours of the morning.

 

“Your boy in there,” he’d said while the two soldiers had stared into the fire. “You see each other’s colors.”

 

It wasn’t a question, wasn’t something hesitant. It also wasn’t like Steve and Bucky hadn’t been careful, hadn’t gone great lengths to hide these truths. 

 

“I’ve seen ‘em since I was a kid,” Steve said, for the first time the words coming to him without bitterness or anger. “Buck only got ‘em after he saw me like this.”

 

Gabe looked at him like he was insane. “Barnes is crazy about you; was before you rescued him, too.” They sat still for a moment, both of them seeing the orange of the flames. “I had a girl.”

 

And this was back when Steve almost didn’t catch the past tense, and most definitely couldn’t process what it meant. He stayed silent, waiting for Gabe.

 

“She was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen,” he sighed. “The pink of her lips won’t fuckin’ leave me. Burned itself into my eyes, and I see it in the sunset.” Steve could see it in his eyes, the colors were scalding.

 

That night, when he and Bucky shared a tent because they always did because that was the bunking arrangements, Steve held on tightly.

 

“Woah there, big guy, what’s flippin’ your wig?” Bucky laughed, a sound clipped only slightly in worry. They were never truly upset in those few months, between the colors and the fall. 

 

“I miss you,” Steve said, because that was as close as he could do.

 

Bucky quieted, smiled softer at Steve and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I’m here.”

 

**  
  


Time passed, slowly, days and weeks at a time. Steve tried, he did, to ignore the hues that clouded his vision. Natasha was good, the only person in this new place that he would call a friend. He had his acquaintances, of course, and his colleagues, and that man he sometimes saw in the grocery store. He’d exchange nods with that man, because that is what you do with the only other person who consistently goes to the grocery store at two in the morning. 

 

But Natasha was his friend. He thought so, at least. There was nothing said of it. That part of it scared him, because there had been nothing said of that growing something between him and Bucky that was only discovered truly just months before it was too late. 

 

There is nothing romantic with Natasha. But that doesn’t mean he can lose her.

 

**  
  


One mission was bad. SHIELD sent them out to do recon for a possible raid in the future, some enemy base in northern Europe. They were supposed to observe only, to watch and figure out who goes in and who came out and who seemingly did what. 

 

To get there, they had to pass through some rough terrain. It was a cloudy day, and snow came not long after they set out. There was a bus they were taking, something gray and subtle, filled with civilians. Steve looked out the window-

 

and all he could see was the white snow gray clouds gray train Bucky falling Bucky dying Bucky gone colors gone gray

 

-and he couldn’t breathe. His lungs were seizing up, like he was back in the thirties and his asthma was acting up. He rubbed his eyes too harshly, but he could still only see all the gray everywhere.

 

Somewhere in his peripherals he saw a flash of something, something bright. He looked around and around, trying to find it, and it was there.

 

Red. He could see red.

 

Somewhere, in the distance, he heard something soft. Quiet and firm, constant. He tried to grab on to the red, hold onto it before it left, before Bucky left-

 

_ You’re alright, it’s okay, deep breaths _

 

_ Breathe with me, Steve, in and out. In and out _

 

_ You’re okay. It’s alright _

 

Light seeped back into Steve’s awareness, his eyes slowly unclouding, breath leaking into his lungs. He unclenched his hand from Natasha’s hair gently, looking at her in fear.

 

“What- was I drugged? What-”

 

“Steve. You had a panic attack. You’re alright.” Natasha’s hands stayed on Steve’s shoulders; she had moved from her seat across from him. Steve felt empty, unusually calm. He started to say something, and stopped himself.

 

“I thought my colors had faded,” he said finally. It was a confession. Even just the idea of his love for Bucky fading was a sin, another thing that would send him to hell. “I thought- Peggy said that as long as I loved him my colors would stay-” he broke off, breath caught in his throat.

 

Natasha had something strange in her eyes, but it was gone in a second. For a minute Steve was scared, noticing his use of the word  _ he _ and feeling that old panic rise. That panic had only ever come from the almost-openings of doors in church halls, the too-loud gasps of young boys in back alleys. 

 

Natasha was good, though. Natasha wouldn’t care. Besides, the future had all these new laws about acceptance and shit. 

 

“You can see my hair, right? It’s bright. Focus on that.” Her words were the kind of soft she used when talking to the people they rescued.

 

Steve  _ did _ look at her hair, and it was bright and red. Last week she’d had it dyed blonde for a mission, but she had dyed it back as soon as she could. Steve focused on that, and then registered the green of her eyes, and then slowly started to recognize all the shades around him. He was okay, and Bucky would always be his soulmate. 

 

Even if he wasn't there with him.

 

**

 

Natasha stopped trying to set Steve up for a while. She would still tease him about the women at SHIELD who sometimes gazed at him a little too long, but she paused her search for his next date. 

 

“So what was he like?” She asked one day, no warning whatsoever. She sent Steve’s head reeling for a minute before he caught up. 

 

Even after it processed, it took Steve a long time to answer. “He was good.” There was a short silence in the car, before the words started spilling out. 

 

“He was soft and sharp all at the same time, and his laugh was beautiful- the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen, ever heard. His hands were soft, too- quiet, and sometimes terrifying. Damn near rival the hands of God. And, God, he was so fucking good-”

 

Steve broke off on a breath too dry. He closed his eyes for a minute, for once not able to escape into the dark. Nat was quiet. 

 

“I was never the faithful sort,” Steve whispered. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Never was. But there ain't a trade I wouldn't make with God or the devil, doesn't even matter, if I could just get him back.”

 

Natasha was a soft presence next to him, safe and reassuring. She didn't reach over and pat him. Didn't say any of the empty words that Steve half expected. Didn't even blink. She just kept on breathing, slowly and evenly. She was good.

 

**  
  


Steve liked running. He liked going and going until he couldn’t go anymore, until he was too exhausted to think about anything. He loved it when he went for so long that by the time he stopped his vision was blurry and he couldn’t focus on any individual colors. That part was his favorite.

 

Sometimes he’d run until everything was a blur, and then he’d run some more. Until he felt a pain in his chest reminiscent of broke-down lungs and a clumsy heart. 

 

He ran in the mornings, when most people were still asleep and he could slowly adjust his eyes to all the shades of the world that were slowly revealed as the sun came up. It wasn’t as much of a shock to his system that way. 

 

Before Bucky had started to see colors, Steve had almost gotten used to the colors. But after that one night with Peggy and Bucky and the bar, it was like everything had been enflamed. It was like he could see them all again, he could absorb them in a way he hadn’t for years. 

 

“They’re all so beautiful,” Bucky had said, that first night or maybe a few later. Steve had smiled, his arms tightening around Bucky. They’d been lying in bed, just holding each other. It didn’t matter, during those times, that they were in the middle of a war and they were in a too-small, uncomfortable bed and they were trying their damndest to be unseen. 

 

Steve was seeing everything for the first time all over again. He was experiencing it with Bucky, teaching him all the names of all the hues he found so gorgeous. Bucky wouldn’t stop raving about all the shades, wouldn’t stop brushing his lips against Steve’s new body and calling it godly. Sometimes Steve felt a pang, that it was only his body Bucky was seeing colors for. But he was too grateful to be too concerned.

 

**  
  


“You must miss the good old days, huh?” Sam was still smiling. Talking with him didn’t take as much energy as conversing usually did.

 

“Well, things aren't so bad. Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything. No polio is good. Internet, so helpful. I've been reading that a lot trying to catch up,” Steve’s face was smiling, but his chest was twisting in a way that had him wanting to get out, get out, get out.

 

But he thought Sam was good. Sam didn’t know.

 

**  
  


_ Bucky was alive _

 

_ Bucky was alive _

 

It pounded through his head, a chant sung by those raising the dead. The dead had been raised.  _ Bucky was alive.  _ All the colors in the world pulsed through Steve, fresh and forceful. Even the dark vans and tunnels were vibrant. 

 

“None of that was your fault, Steve,” Natasha said as Steve tried to focus on anything except all the colors. 

 

It was Steve’s fault though. He saw the colors first and he stuck around with Bucky and he took the serum and he got the new body that had made Bucky fall in love with him. Bucky stayed in the war because of him. Bucky fell because of him. 

 

Steve didn't catch him.

 

**  
  


The battle on the helicarrier was brutal. Steve knew he had a job to do, that he couldn't stop fighting until he saved all those innocent people. But it was so goddamn hard to keep on hurting Bucky. His soulmate was crying out, needed help, even if he didn't know it. Steve wasn't helping, though- he was part of the problem. 

 

He could finally stop fighting after the chip got exchanged. He stopped fighting, got Bucky out from under that beam, and stopped fighting back.

 

It was sick, it was so fucked up, but Steve craved it, every time Bucky slammed his fist into Steve’s body. Every touch brought with it ten times more pleasure than pain. It was a goddamn miracle, having Bucky back, and the only thing that pained Steve was what his Bucky had gone through to get there. But god, it was all okay. For the first time since Bucky fell, Steve thought it might all be okay.

 

**  
  


Steve left the hospital as soon as he could. He was going to get Bucky, would get him back if it killed him. (Not getting Bucky back would kill him. Steve had been dead for so long.)

 

Sam was going to go with him, to find Bucky. Steve had known Sam was good. 

 

For the moment, though, Sam had forced Steve to take a break. Brought him to a little ice cream shop where they met Natasha. The shop was brightly lit, felt like a dream. All whites and pinks and pastels. Steve couldn’t stand all of the colors- at least, not when he wasn’t moving towards his Bucky. 

 

The three sat in a booth, Sam and Nat on one side and Steve on the other. Steve kept looking towards the other side of the parlor, at a man who kept looking up at him. The man looked tired. Steve looked and saw a woman across from the man who looked exactly like- “Nat-”

 

He stopped. The man who was looking at him looked to the woman he was across from to tell her that she looked exactly like Natasha. It was a mirror.

 

Steve felt stupid.

 

**  
  


Steve and Sam were making progress. Slow, and not even really steady, but they were gaining leads and tips and moving from town to town on hunches. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could do.

 

Steve was just so goddamn tired.

 

“Steve, man, you have to give it a rest,” Sam said, watching Steve comb through files with a sad, pitying look on his face. “You’re not a machine, and you have to give your body a rest.”

 

The body was the only thing keeping Steve going. It was the only thing that had ever caused any of this. Maybe, Steve thought, he was trying to punish it.

 

**  
  


They caught a solid glimpse in Confluence, Pennsylvania. They were there on a tip Natasha picked up, wherever she was those days. 

 

They were scoping out yet another motel (pay by the day or by the hour, cash not unusual). A man walked out, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and gloves. His hair was tied back, and he had a baseball cap on. Those identifiers didn’t matter though, because Steve knew anyway. He could recognize this man from the feeling in the air alone. 

 

Before Sam could stop him, Steve was out of the car, walking towards Bucky with his hands up. “Bucky,” he said. “Please just hear me out. Please.”

 

Bucky stopped walking, looked at Steve with wary eyes. “I know I’m supposed to know you. I don’t, though.” 

 

“That’s alright. I’m Steve,” Steve said (to convince Bucky? To convince himself?). “How much do you know?”

 

“I’m not HYDRA’s. I’m not a machine.” Bucky looked scared, but defensive. Like he wanted this to be true and he thought it should be true but he was afraid somebody would tell him it was false. Afraid, deep-down, that he was just a machine.

 

“You’re right,” Steve said. “You don’t belong to HYDRA. You’re not a machine. You are a person.” Steve paused, caught up and distracted by the color of Bucky’s eyes. They were stunning. “Do you know why you see colors?”

 

Bucky jerked. He looked at Steve sharply. “I don’t.”

 

“It’s okay that you don’t know-”

 

“No. I mean. I don’t see colors.”

 

Steve flinched back like he’d been punched. “You-” he closed his eyes. “Bucky, you-” but when he opened them, Bucky was gone.

 

**  
  


“It's probably got to do with the brainwashing,” Sam said gently. Steve was sitting across from him at the little café, holding his mug with white knuckles. 

 

Natasha sat herself down next to Sam, appearing with a mug of her own. (Why were they always sitting on the opposite side of him? Like an interrogation?) “It could be the brainwashing. It could be that he doesn't have his memory. It could be a million and one things to do with the trauma. Steve, the fact is you just don't know.”

 

Sam nodded, barely shocked by her sudden arrival. “She’s right. You just have to keep looking, keep an eye out-”

 

“He doesn't see them anymore. He doesn't see them- he doesn't-” Steve took in a breath. “I have to find him again, for real this time. I still have to help him, I need him-”

 

“Take a deep breath, man,” Sam murmured. “It'll be okay.”

 

**  
  


They looked some more. Steve was out of his mind, searching and searching for anything-  _ anything _ -he could do to speed this up. But there was nothing. 

 

Sam was worried, Steve could tell. Worried about how little he slept, how sunken his eyes were, how Steve spent hours researching soulmates and colors. 

 

Steve found three common reasons why people lost their ability to see colors. 

 

  1. Injury to the head that inhibits the area of the brain that becomes activated with the hormones that come from loving a soulmate
  2. Lack of the actual hormone that activates that center of the brain 
  3. Falling out of love, usually triggered by an unforgivable act by the soulmate



  
**

 

“It's not your fault.” Sam had tired eyes, tired voice, sad eyes, sad voice. 

 

“He fell out of love because I let him fall from the train, I let him get captured and tortured and brainwashed-”

 

_ “Steve,”  _ Natasha said. “It  _ was not _ your fault. You don't even know if that's the reason he doesn't see colors. Hell, what if he actually  _ does _ see colors, and told you he didn't because he was scared? The fact is, you just don't know. And you won't know until you find him.” 

 

Natasha and Sam were sitting on a shitty motel couch. Steve was sitting on a chair across from them. An image of an interrogation room flashed across Steve’s mind, two people with harsh faces and strict suits staring down a criminal.

 

**  
  


Another two weeks passed, and with it four more motels. Natasha wasn't with them anymore, had only stayed after the first interaction with Bucky for a week. 

 

Steve felt bad. He felt guilty for dragging Sam into this when it wasn't Sam’s fight, wasn't Sam’s soulmate (was it Steve’s soulmate?). Steve looked at him, sprawled on one of the two twin beds and snoring. He hadn't even taken his shoes off. 

 

Steve had exhausted him. 

 

The motel phone rang suddenly, startling Sam awake with a snort. Steve’s mouth twitched, something that may have been a smile if he hadn’t been distracted by the sea green of the walls around him. 

 

Sam picked up the phone. “Hello?” He looked over to where Steve was and swallowed. “It’s for you, man.”

 

Steve looked over sluggishly and took the line. “This is Steve,” he said.

 

“I remember seeing colors.” It was Bucky and his voice sounded wrecked. “I remember seeing them and I don’t know why I can’t see them now and I don’t know if I’m remembering correctly and I-” he took a deep breath. “I want to meet you.”

 

Steve took in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. His heart was pounding, and he pictured the red of it. The blood inside of it. “Just tell me where.”

 

**  
  


Steve felt like he could fucking  _ breathe _ . Bucky was there. Right there. And maybe he didn’t look okay, but he didn’t look terrible, either, so all things considered it was alright.

 

Bucky was standing against a car in the parking lot they’d discussed. His arms were folded and he had on a blue ballcap and all of his clothes were dark but they didn’t match. It wasn’t quite night outside, but the sun was low enough to paint the sky into all those sunsets people wrote about. 

 

“Buck,” Steve said, voice a little rough and a little disbelieving. 

 

Bucky just stared at him. His face gave nothing away, except maybe a twitch in his eyes, or a line around his mouth. 

 

“Did you used to be-” Bucky paused and considered his words. “In the thirties. Were you smaller?” 

 

Steve’s breath stuttered and his heart felt like a freight train. (Used to be smaller? He was smaller than he ever felt, right at that moment, in that parking lot, bum lungs bum heart not enough never enough-)

 

“Yeah, Buck, I was. They gave me a serum that made me this way.”  _ That made you love me like I have always loved you.  _

 

“Okay, alright, I-” Bucky was struggling, that much was clear. His throat bobbed and his eyes scattered, looking anywhere and everywhere except Steve. 

 

It was the worst kind of familiar, looking at him and knowing that while Steve saw him in full color, saw his eyes with their blues and his skin and his hands and his  _ lips-  _

 

The color had burned itself into his eyes, and he saw it in the surrounding sunset. 

 

A car horn blared, and Bucky’s eyes jumped to the source. 

 

“I want to go with you. And I want to figure out where my colors went.”

 

“Alright, Buck. It's good to hear that.”

 

**  
  


The car was quiet. Sam was driving, with Natasha sitting in the passenger seat. Steve sat in the backseat with Bucky. 

 

Steve was painfully aware of the distance they maintained between each other. He was painfully aware of Natasha’s red hair, and what it must have looked like in hues of gray. 

 

He tried to remember a time when he saw in hues of gray. Everything before the colors though was blurry, surreal. 

 

Steve's eyes were flickered between Bucky and the space in front of him, staring and trying not to stare. It was impossible to avoid the man next to him. It wasn't like Steve even wanted to avoid him. He just didn't want Bucky feeling overwhelmed. 

 

“Where are we going?” Bucky’s voice was subdued, his mouth turned down at the edges. Steve looked at him and saw purple sunken eyes and red cracked lips and blue green veins. Steve wondered at all the colors blood could make. 

 

“New York,” Natasha said when it became clear Steve wouldn’t (couldn’t?) speak. “Stark’s tower.” 

 

Bucky turned his head and glanced at Steve. “Howard’s kid, right?” 

 

Steve cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, uh, his name’s Tony. Same brains and an even worse attitude.” 

 

“I don't remember much, but I know that can't be good,” Bucky said with eyes and a mouth that were trying. Steve smiled, but he couldn't tell if it worked even in the slightest.

 

**

 

There was a moment, before everyone got out of the car and into the tower.  Everyone seemed to pause, to breathe. 

 

Steve looked at Bucky and Bucky looked at Steve and each of them imagined what the other saw. Steve thought of himself, black and white, tiny, nine years old. Bucky thought of himself, full of color and life, a sixteen year old kid in the back alleys of Brooklyn. 

 

They breathed.

 

**  
  


Tony had been talking for ten minutes straight. He seemed to have been talking before they even walked through the door, before he even knew they were there. Steve looked over at Bucky and a smirk tugged at his lips. 

 

_ What the hell,  _ Bucky’s eyes asked him. Steve just raised his eyebrows.  _ You're telling me.  _

 

It was strange, speaking a language they both used to know. They were once, perhaps, fluent in this tongue. Once, perhaps, fluent in each other, fluent to each other’s selves. 

 

There were nuances they’d lost, facets that had been hidden in miles of uncertainty, a century of disaster. They were the speakers of a dead language- Latin felt vibrant around their word. It was a dead people language. 

 

Steve blinked at Bucky and Bucky nodded slightly. Tony was still talking.

 

**  
  


_ “Let me in!”  _ Steve screamed. “I want to  _ see  _ him!” Steve’s throat felt raw. He yelled and yelled, at the medics and the bodyguards. “Let me  _ see _ him! Why can't I go in there?”

 

And it was strange. Because, Steve hadn't used barely any words when he’d had Bucky. But now, now that he'd lost his soul, he couldn't use enough of his voice. 

 

Natasha stepped in front of Steve. “Steve. They need to examine him. Bucky consented to this. It's okay.” 

 

Steve looked everywhere but at her; he looked at the guards with their hands on their guns and at Tony who looked about ready to call his suit down. He looked at the gray walls of the tower around him and he looked at the cement floor and he looked at the guards’ black suits and he couldn't see any windows to look outside and-

 

Natasha touched his shoulder. Steve couldn't look up from the gray floor. She took his arm and carefully guided him out of the hallway and into a room. 

 

“Steve. Look up. Look at me,” she said. Steve couldn't look. The walls were white. “Steve.”

 

Steve picked up his head, his eyes still reeling and his breath not slowing-  _ when had it sped up? When did this happen? What's happening? _

 

“Steve. Look at me.” 

 

Red. He could see red. Natasha’s hair was red. Natasha was here. Bucky was- 

 

“Bucky,” he choked out. 

 

“Bucky is inside of a room with Bruce. They are doing some medical examinations. Bucky said it was okay.” 

 

Steve took in a deep breath. He felt himself fall into Natasha. “Thanks,” he said. She pressed her face into his head so that her hair dangled into his eyes. Steve appreciated it.

 

**  
  


“Hey, Steve.”

 

Steve looked up and then knocked his chair over in the process of standing. “Bucky. Hi. Hey.” 

 

Bucky looked vaguely amused, but sobered quickly. “I- um. I remember you. Not, um, everything, but. I remember the colors.” He cleared his throat. “I want them back. But Stevie-”

 

Steve was already nodding his support quickly, ready to take whatever he could get. He was fuckin’ desperate. Starving for anything. Hunger gnawed at his insides, screeching at him to just get closer, just hold out a hand and fucking  _ touch him _ , touch an arm or a hand or a waist-

 

“I'm fucked up. I know I am. There's no denying it. And I don't know how much good I'll be,” Bucky said quietly. 

 

“Bucky, it's not-” Steve stopped. Gathered his thoughts. “Whatever’s going on inside your head, and I'm not going to pretend to have any idea, it's never going to change how I feel. How much I-” he wondered if it was too much, too soon, too little, too late, “how much I love you. And I'll be here with anything you want to have.” 

 

Bucky shuddered out a breath he'd seemed to be holding. “They're gonna try and figure out where my colors went. They're gonna try to get them back.” 

 

Steve swallowed. A part of him still thought there was nothing left to retrieve.

 

**  
  


Bucky said it was okay. Bucky was okay with it. It was fine, because Bucky was fine. Bucky said it was okay. 

 

Steve didn't feel very okay. He watched them take Bucky into labs and he watched Bucky tense up at the chairs and he wanted to punch something. It didn't feel right, throwing Bucky right back into this shit when he’d barely gotten out of everything else. 

 

It was Bucky’s choice, and Steve respected it, but he wanted to claw the skin off of his own body. He wanted to bite his jaw down so hard it shattered. He wanted to gather Bucky up and hold him, press his face into Bucky’s neck, and never let go. 

 

He was watching through the lab windows, at Bruce and some other doctors who were wandering around Bucky. Steve was pretty sure Bruce was only there to comfort Steve, to show him someone he knew. Bruce wasn't that kind of doctor. 

 

Bucky’s eyes were wild, his metal fist clenching and unclenching and his flesh hand shaking. Steve wanted to be in there, to hold Bucky’s hands in his own. The colors of the lab pulsed in his eyes, seeming sharper the closer they were to Bucky. Steve just wanted Bucky to be okay.

 

**  
  


Bruce took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. “We’re not sure what exactly it is. We’re going to have to do more examinations.” 

 

Steve let out a breath. “Is he okay with it? He’s doing alright?” They hadn't let him talk to Bucky since he went into the lab. 

 

“He's doing alright, Steve,” Bruce said. He looked pitying. Or maybe Steve just hadn’t had to recognize anything else for a long time. Steve wanted to punch something. Or hold Bucky. Either. 

 

Natasha was in the room, watching Steve carefully. Sam had gone back to DC for a while, said he'd be back when he could. 

 

“We’re planning on moving him into a SHIELD facility out of the city. It would be... more efficient,” Bruce settled on. Steve breathed lightly. 

 

“Steve,” Natasha said. “It's going to be alright. Bucky’s going to be all right. If you want, I can go with them-”

 

“He’s okay with it? And can I go? How long will it be?” 

 

Bruce looked at him warily. “Bucky said he wants to talk to you before we decide anything.” 

 

Steve nodded. “Alright. Can I see him now?”

 

**  
  


“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said tiredly. He was sitting upright on a metal table in the lab. 

 

“Hey. What, they ran out of chairs?” Steve attempted a joke. 

 

“Nah. Asked them for the least chair-like thing they had,” Bucky explained. It made sense, Steve supposed. 

 

There was a pause, while Bucky looked at the table and Steve looked at Bucky. (He couldn't get enough, he watched and watched until he could name a hundred thousand shades in a section of Bucky’s face.) They were quiet, and while it could have been awkward, the both of them knew they needed a minute. 

 

“I remember missing you,” Bucky said. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Steve murmured, thinking of all the years Bucky spent without him. On his own, being forced to kill over and over-

 

“Not while I was the Soldier,” Bucky said, and shook his head quickly. “I remember missing you during the war, on our way back to base from Azzano.”

 

“I was with you,” Steve said, confused. Bucky nodded. 

 

“I think I remember that too.”

 

There was another pause, where Steve weighed his words. 

 

“You’re alright with letting them look a little longer?” He asked. He had to be sure. 

 

“I'm fucked up, Stevie,” Bucky sighed. “I want my colors back,” his voice was tired. “And they said they could help me, uh, deprogram. Maybe get back a few more memories.” 

 

“You know none of it was ever your fault, right? And that you can take as much time as you need to recover?” Steve was thinking of all the things he'd meant to say, all the little ways he’d wanted to help Bucky. It had been a big long speech in his head. Delivered to anyone else, it would have been a big long speech. Given to Bucky, it was a jumbled mess begging for an end. 

 

“The months you were looking for me- I think I started to learn. I just,” and Bucky looked at Steve with something in his eyes that Steve didn't know how to describe. It was warm, and gone quickly. “I’m gonna see what they can do for me. Minute I don't like it, I'm out, I promise. I ain't gonna deal with any more pushy doctors.” There was something like a strained smile. 

 

“Alright, Buck. You know I support you.” Maybe Bucky didn't know. 

 

“I know, Steve.” There was another pause. “They asked me, first thing, if I was mad at you any. Wanted to see if maybe I was the reason the colors were gone.”

 

Steve held his breath, keeping his eyes steady on a section of Bucky’s shirt. 

 

“I ain't mad, Stevie. None of it was your fault, either.” 

 

Steve shuddered, his entire body shaking with it. “I'm so fucking sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant to let you fall- I swear, Buck-”

 

Bucky leaned forward so he was resting his head on Steve’s chest. “It's alright, Steve. It's okay. I know you didn't mean to. Never blamed you. It's okay.” 

 

Steve couldn’t believe how selfish he was letting himself be. Steve was the one who should be comforting Bucky, Steve was the one with a penance to pay, Steve was the one who would go to hell for this. Steve would go to hell for tainting a good fucking man. Bucky was good. 

 

Their hearts beat between each other. Steve could feel Bucky’s breath against his chest, could feel the warmth. He reached up and tangled his hand into the raggedy mess of hair. He held on so fucking tightly- so afraid to let go. 

 

It maybe should have been a quiet moment. But there was the hum of machinery in the lab and the buzz of the tower outside the walls and the red of Tony’s equipment seemed to scream at Steve. 

 

It maybe should have been a loud moment, filled with harsh, desperate breathing between the two and pounding heartbeats. But Steve’s lungs were calm for once and their hearts were steady. The red of the lab quieted Steve.

 

**  
  


Bucky left the next morning with Bruce. Steve had hugged Bucky as tightly as he’d dared and let him go as late as possible. 

 

After, Natasha watched him carefully, and maybe saw the gray set into his eyes. 

 

That time, though, it was only a throbbing fear rather than the piercing panic. Steve knew what to do and he looked straight at Natasha, at Natasha’s face and her hair. Her eyes were green. Her hair was red. He could still differentiate the colors. It was okay. 

 

“I have something for you,” Natasha said. Steve took a deep breath and unclenched his fists and nodded. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

Nat handed him a tablet. “There's this little French short, called  _ Le Ballon Rouge,”  _ she said. “I think you’ll like it. You can keep the tablet.”

 

When Steve looked up from the gift, she was gone, because she'd never want to own up to doing this unless she was collecting a debt. Steve felt like this was the opposite- perhaps it was something being payed. 

 

He wandered back to his room, unlocking the tablet and finding the only app on it- a video player with the short already downloaded. 

 

When he felt settled into his room, he clicked play and watched. 

 

The first thing he noticed was the bright red in the center of the screen. The balloon was striking against everything else in the background, and not so large that it was the only thing that could be seen. The entire short played and Steve barely noticed the half hour or so passing by, was stuck following the red in the screen. 

 

It was perfect.

 

**  
  


Sam called that night. 

 

“And I'm doubling over laughing, practically falling off the podium, and this guy just keeps going. Just stands up and does a full-on comedy bit. Rest of the vets are laughing, I've got tears streamin’ down my face- man, you shoulda been there.” 

 

“That's fuckin’ funny, Sam. I wish I coulda been there, too,” Steve said with a smile. 

 

“I think it’s how he’s been coping, the jokes. All about everyday nuisances and all. He could probably make a profession out of it,” Sam said, still snickering. 

 

“Don't see that every day, do you?” Steve asked with an amused huff. “You should take a video next time.” 

 

Sam hummed and sobered for a minute. “How're things? Nat told me about Bucky’s decision.” 

 

“Things are fine,” Steve said. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, man. I'm not gonna push you. But if you ever need to talk as a friend, I'll be there. Talking as a therapist will cost you,” Sam laughed. Steve could feel the warmth in his words and could picture his face. 

 

“Thank you,” Steve said, putting all the emotion he could into it. “So tell me more about that girl you met.” Teasing Sam was easy- easier than anything right then. 

 

As Sam snorted and obliged, Steve saw Natasha walk by his living room.  _ Thank you, _ he mouthed, and Natasha glared.  _ I have no idea what you're talking about,  _ her expression said. 

 

“Alright, take it easy, man,” Sam said a bit later. The line clicked off. 

 

“I mean it,” Steve directed at Natasha who was sprawled over the couch, taking up the whole thing. 

 

“Come rub my feet,” she said, and that was good enough. 

 

Natasha turned on Netflix and they were quiet. It was nice. Steve thought about Bucky and thought about his colors and wondered when Bucky would figure out he was chasing love he didn't feel anymore.

 

**  
  


Time passed strangely. It wasn't like the time between the serum and Bucky, where everything moved so quick Steve could barely take a breath, the pressure closing in on Steve’s lungs. It wasn't like the war, where the time and pressure both were relieved by Bucky’s colors. It wasn't like before Steve met the Winter Soldier, when time was molasses that he had to push through. It wasn't like searching for Bucky, when time stretched and bunched like taffy, slow sometimes and a race in others. 

 

Time was just- passing. A clock that clicked perfectly in tune, a metronome. Rhythm, no  _ accelerando,  _ no  _ ritardando _ . A pace without an adverb. 

 

Steve dwindled. Things were soft. Everything was tired. 

 

He spent most of his time watching the city outside his window. All of it was vibrant, loud. It was strange, finding solace in the bright carelessness. When he’d first woken up, all he could think of when he saw the colors was that Bucky was dead. Now, though, they reminded him of Bucky’s life. 

 

The missions he was sent on were helpful, in some ways. They distracted him, let him think of something other than how many times he’d failed his soulmate. But as much as it hurt to think like that, it hurt more to ignore Bucky, even for a short while. 

 

The video from Nat helped. On missions, where it seemed every passing color was either grey or black or dark blue, the red balloon was a good reminder. His teammates quickly learned not to disturb him from that video unless there was an emergency. 

 

There was one woman who he was sent out with fairly regularly. She would sit with him sometimes, hesitantly at first. 

 

_ “Do you mind, Cap?” She sat quietly at one of the chairs at his table. Steve shook his head. He turned the screen towards her.  _

 

The both of them would watch the video before or after missions, tense with anticipation or drooping with the weight of blood. It never mattered whose.

 

After one particularly brutal mission, they sat together. Thirty minutes later and the red balloon was being stomped into the ground. Steve looked over and the woman- Ellen -was crying quietly. She had blood in her blonde hair and dirt under her fingernails, hands clenched into fists. 

 

“Ellen?” Steve asked. She nodded stiffly. “You're alright. Things are alright.” He pointed to all the different colors of the balloons racing into the screen. They were all vibrant. Beautiful.

 

**  
  


Time was still passing. Missions were scarce for a while, and Steve wandered the tower, eyes trained on his tablet. 

 

He'd watched that video so many times. 

 

The others watched him from a distance, wondered how he managed to look so small. He’d just stumble, wrapped in a blanket and looking at the tablet, wandering the floors and flopping down onto couches. Tony and Clint would try and engage, and Steve would never ignore them. He'd joke with them for a short while. But he never stuck around. 

 

Nat and Pepper, even, if she was around, would just sit with him, if they found him. Steve appreciated that, they could tell, and sometimes he opened up. In short, tangled sentences. 

 

“He was- he’s okay now- well, not okay, but he-” a blink. “He wants to see colors again.”

 

Or

 

“There was always something about him that was so much, so very fucking much, he was just- better than me. Always.” 

 

Or

 

“Loved him so much and I still-” a sigh. Steve looked at Natasha with a blank expression. “Fucked around a lot as a kid. The boys were always just a little more desperate than me.” 

 

Or

 

“I just want to fuckin-” a choking sound “I just want to hold him, he's gotta be so scared, and I let him fall, and I'm not even allowed to be like this, I shouldn't-” 

 

Natasha stopped him with a hand on his knee. “You're allowed to be upset, and you're allowed to be sad and scared. Just because he’s had it worse, it doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel things.” 

 

Steve sighed and scrubbed his face. “Shit. I'm sorry.” 

 

“Nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.”

 

**  
  


Bucky called him, a couple months after he left with Bruce. 

 

“Hey, Stevie,” he said. 

 

Steve breathed deeply for the first time in a couple of months. “Bucky, hey, how are you?” 

 

“I'm, ah, pretty good, Steve. They're still figuring things out about the colors, but um. They deprogrammed a couple trigger words they figured out. And I'm going to, um, a therapist. For my, uh. PTSD. Fancy word for shell shock, apparently.” 

 

It felt strange that those were more words in a row than Steve had spoken in several months, besides on missions. “That's- that’s great, Bucky, I’m really proud of you,” Steve said with a grin. 

 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, sounding a little proud of himself. “It took me a while to agree to any of it.” 

 

“Well, you're certainly allowed to be skeptical,” Steve assured. “So do you, uh. You been remembering things?” 

 

It wasn't Steve’s right to ask these questions, was it? To force Bucky into anything? Steve was a goddamn selfish son of a bitch. 

 

“Yeah, Stevie, it's a little spotty but I remember a lot. I've got a good timeline of before the fall, at least.” He cleared his throat. “Afterwards is still kind of jumbled.” 

 

There was a tense pause. 

 

“I miss you,” Steve blurted out. Bucky sighed. 

 

“I know, Steve,” he said quietly. “I'll be back soon. They say they're close. They wanna do a deeper look of my brain, but I haven't let ‘em yet.” 

 

“Deeper?” 

 

“They're gonna shoot up my brain veins with chemicals to see what lights up.”

 

“Mm. Graphic,” Steve said. 

 

Bucky laughed shortly and it was quite possibly the largest, most beautiful thing Steve had ever heard. Steve was suffocating. Steve wasn't listening. 

 

“-didn't want to because I wasn't sure what the chemicals would do. But they gave me a computer and Bruce helped me research the chemical on my own and I think it's gonna be okay.”

 

“I'm real proud of you, Buck, and I hope everything goes well. Bruce wouldn't ever lead you wrong, I know that,” Steve assured him. “You're in good hands.”

 

“I'm in my own.”

 

“Yeah, Bucky, you are. Good hands.” 

 

“Hmm,” Bucky said.

 

**  
  


There were two days in between that phone call and the procedure. Steve floated along the hallways like a ghost. The first day, he spent his usual: tablet in hands and feet dragging the floors. 

 

The second day, he was sent on a mission. 

 

“Fury, I need to stay.” Steve’s voice was hard, no room for negotiation. 

 

“You're needed elsewhere, Rogers. Your boy will be just fine a day or two.” 

 

“I'm not going.” 

 

Fury picked himself up to stand taller, glaring. “You are needed, Captain.” 

 

“Yes. I'm needed right here.” 

 

“Are you?”

 

**  
  


Steve flew out that night. His eyes stayed fucking glued to the goddamn tablet.

 

**  
  


The mission went badly.

 

**  
  


_ Ellen was yelling. Steve felt something warm spreading quickly on his side. It was kind of nice. There was lots of color.  _

 

_ Everything was just a little bit blurry, though, melting together and stretching (rhythm without a metronome), pain in his side (accelerando), where was Bucky? (ritardando) Bucky needed him- (grave) Bucky-  _

 

_ (Finale) _

 

**  
  


_ (Elegy) _

 

**  
  


Ellen stayed with Steve the entire time he was out. She kept  _ Le Ballon Rouge _ on repeat. She held his hand. Agent Romanoff, the Widow, stayed too. She fielded the press and the phone calls. The calls came mostly from one very aggravated soulmate, it seemed. 

 

Ellen remembered her soulmate like he’d never gone away. He brought with him the most brilliant shades of blue and they'd never left. 

 

Natasha was talking on the phone again. “Barnes, he’s going to be just fine. His body’s just taking its time. There's no permanent damage.” 

 

The person on the other end was outright yelling. 

 

“He didn't want to go in the first place! He shouldn't’a been sent out, distracted as he was! You know how he is- he was too anxious about me, left me about a dozen messages...”

 

The voice trailed off as Romanoff left the room. 

 

The captain stirred. Immediately, Ellen was by his side. His eyes were restless when they opened, reeling from one place to another, searching. 

 

“Bucky- it's all grey, where'd you go? Where'd they go?” His breaths were too quick, eyes too frantic. Ellen grabbed one of the bright flowers that had been sent and waved it in front of his face. 

 

Slowly, Steve's eyes started tracking the carnation, following it until he fell back into unconsciousness. Ellen sighed and watched the video again. 

 

When Agent Romanoff came back, she was strangely pale. Her jaw ticked every now and then, and Ellen figured that was a pretty big tell for a super spy. 

 

Said super spy leaned over the captain and kissed his forehead. “Your boy’s seeing your colors again soon,” she whispered. “Now you have to wake up, because he wants to come home.” 

 

After that, the two women sat in companionable silence. Ellen wondered what was so clearly chewing the Widow up from the inside out.

 

**  
  


_ (Encore) _

 

**  
  


Steve could see orange and pink. Bright, fuzzy. He watched the colors lazily, and picked up his head. There was a stinging in his side. 

 

His side... the mission... Bucky?

 

He tried to sit up, frantically, hands moving down to clutch at his wound. His eyes roamed, settling on Ellen. 

 

“You're okay? Everybody’s okay?” He was already tensing up, waiting. 

 

“Everybody’s fine, Steve,” Nat said from his left. “You were the only one injured.” 

 

“What's the damage,” he asked, somewhat jokingly. 

 

“Gunshot wound followed by a stab in the same area, probably meant to finish you off.” 

 

Ellen’s nose twitched at the words. 

 

“Dumbasses,” Steve said with a snort. Ellen looked at him and her mouth tipped up at the edges. “It's alright. I'm okay.” 

 

“You almost weren't, asshole,” she said. Steve shrugged. 

 

“Barnes has been calling,” Natasha cut in. Her face was giving away something, but Steve couldn't quite tell what. He couldn't focus on that right then. 

 

“Is he okay? How did the procedure go?” Steve tried to grab at his phone nearby, but hissed when he pulled at his side. 

 

“You've only been out a day. Procedure was yesterday. They found something,” she said. Her voice was too monotone for his liking. 

 

“What's wrong? Something’s wrong with him. What is it?” 

 

“No, Steve, everything is fine. He’s fine. Here, call him,” she said, throwing him her cell. 

 

Steve hesitantly took the phone and looked at Natasha with a guarded expression. “What's going on, Nat?” His voice was calmer. 

 

“Just call him,” she said. “Please.” 

 

Steve pressed the numbers with shaking fingers. The phone rang once, twice-

 

“Nat? What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice was frantic, panicked. Steve let out a breath with relief.

 

“Bucky,” he said, and it was grace. On the other line, Bucky sucked in a breath.

 

“Steve, you’re up?” He sounded hesitant. “You’re alright?”

 

“Yeah, Bucky, I’m alright. Are you? Nat said they found something.”

 

“I wanted to, um. Where are you?” Bucky’s voice was tentative, almost like he was procrastinating something.

 

“In my hospital room,” Steve said.

 

“This must be a record. What, awake ten minutes and you haven’t plotted your escape?” Bucky huffed a laugh, but it was off. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I was too worried about your dumb ass to worry about much else.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Nat said they found something.”

 

At this point, Steve watched Natasha and Ellen leave the room quietly, a worried glance from Ellen punctuating the move. Steve swallowed and watched them retreat, the bland hospital door closing on their tails. He was alone again. 

 

“Yeah, Stevie, they uh... they think they can get my colors back,” Bucky said, voice rough. 

 

Steve’s mind processed this, pulling at the sentence and all its meanings. “There are, um. There are still colors? You’re still producing the hormone?”  _ Bucky still loves him Bucky still loves him Bucky still loves him Bucky still loves- _

 

“Yeah, Stevie. What, thought Hydra could torture the soul right outta me?” Bucky laughed but it was fake.

 

“No! No, I just thought. I, um.” Where did Steve go? Where did the speeches and shining eloquence disappear to? Maybe the speeches and eloquence were never Steve. Maybe, instead of disappearing, Steve was coming back. “Do you see colors now? Can you see them?”

 

“Ah, no, Stevie, I wanted to talk to you.”

 

_ Bucky doesn’t want his colors back, doesn’t even want to love- _

 

It was amazing how the two could dance around a sentence or three, avoiding what they wouldn’t have had to even say, in the thirties. It was amazing how dead their ancient tongues were, how zombified their words sounded. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“So what they found was an inhibitor. Hydra implanted it while I was there, it filters out the hormone from the part of the brain that sees colors. No hormone, no activation of that part of the brain. So, they just gotta take out the chip,” Bucky said, voice clinical.

 

“Okay- when are you gonna do it?” If Steve sounded impatient, if his voice sounded more desperate than anything else, that was his business. If his heart was beating blood red, if it was clawing its way out of his chest and leaving carnage behind, if it was yearning for Bucky and his arms and his smile, well. That was his business.

 

“I, um. Steve. Are you sure?”

 

“What? Of course I’m sure- are you?”  _ Please, God, let him be sure. Let him want me, in whatever way. _ For the first time in a century, there were prayers behind his eyes and in his mind. And if they were selfish, if Steve was praying and losing his place in heaven at the same time, if Steve felt another rung on the ladder down to hell wouldn’t hurt, well.

 

That was his business.

 

On the other line, Bucky let out a breath that felt like salvation. “Okay. Surgery to take it out is tomorrow, then.” 

 

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be there.”

 

“Steve, you dumbass, you’re in the hospital-”

 

“I’m fuckin fine. I’ll be there.”

 

**  
  


Natasha and Ellen glared at him as he left. “You were stabbed, Steve.” (Either of them could have said it, either of them could have killed him with her gaze.)

 

“And I’ll be stabbed again. I’m going to see Bucky.”

 

“Hey, Steve?” (That could have only been Ellen.) 

 

Steve turned and smiled softly, his eyes going round like his innocence wasn’t lost in a different life. He tugged at her sleeve and wrapped her up in a hug. She squeezed him tightly. Then she squared her shoulders and pushed him off. “Don’t be a dumbass and get hurt, okay?”

 

Steve huffed out a breath of air. “Okay. It’s not like it’s gonna be dangerous, though.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

**  
  


By the time he got to the lab in upstate New York, Bucky was already in surgery. Bruce was in the operation room with him, directing people more than anything. Steve was watching from the observation room, hands clenching and unclenching. 

 

Fuckin brain surgery. 

 

Somebody was standing next to him, some doctor. “He shouldn’t have waited,” she muttered. 

 

“What?” Steve asked, distracted. 

 

“Barnes shouldn't have waited,” she said again after flicking her eyes at Steve. 

 

“Excuse you, it was his decision and none of your-” 

 

“Sure, but everybody told him the risk would be higher if he waited.” 

 

Steve narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “What risk?”

 

“The chip’s disintegration. Should have been removed as soon as it was hit by the chemical.” 

 

“What's the difference?” 

 

“The chip started to deconstruct as soon as it came into contact with the foreign material. Barnes’ visual cortex is more and more likely to be blocked from ever seeing color the longer they wait to take out the inhibitor.” 

 

Steve stared at the doctor and then out at Bucky, undergoing fuckin’ brain surgery.

 

**  
  


Rhythm changed again. It was a blown up grandfather clock with the hands taken off the face. It was a waiting game. Everybody just had to wait and wait for Bucky to wake up. 

 

Steve wouldn’t leave Bucky’s hospital room- not for sleep, not for a shower, not for food. He sat and watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, occasionally glancing at Bruce or other doctors flowing in and out, tapping on machines and checking vitals.

 

Bruce was sitting in the only other chair at the moment. Steve swiped a hand over his face. “How big is the chance he wakes up and still can’t see them?”

 

“Higher than it was before you got shot.”

 

“He’s a fuckin’ dumbass, and I shouldn’t have gotten shot.” Steve blinked hard, and scratched his ear.

 

“It wouldn’t be your fault, Steve,” Bruce sighed.

 

Steve laughed. “No, it definitely would be.” It was his fault far before any of this. It’s been his fault since the first time he saw the green in the grass, the blue in the sky. Bucky never wanted any of this. And now he might not get it.

 

“Steve,” Bruce said tiredly.

 

**  
  


Steve didn’t move when he saw Bucky stir. Didn’t move when the eyelids twitched a few hours later. Held his breath when even further along Bucky’s eyes opened, glazed, and closed again. 

 

Steve moved when he heard a hitch of breath and saw a scrunching of eyebrows. He dragged his plastic chair closer and grabbed Bucky’s hand. He drew in a great big breath and held it and for a second, without air, it felt like he’d never breathed easier. 

 

The hand in his was warm. Five fingers and a palm and Steve had never simultaneously pressed something closer to him so tightly and so gently. He held Bucky’s hand to his cheek and had never felt something more beautiful.

 

The five fingers twitched again, the eyelids stirred, the breath came quicker, and suddenly Steve’s world was a pair of gray-blue eyes. 

 

Bucky coughed. “Can I- water?” 

 

Steve chanced a glance at Bruce, seeing what the doctor (not that kind of doctor) had to say. “No liquids for now,” he said apologetically. 

 

“Damn,” Bucky murmured before falling back to sleep. 

 

Steve sighed and squeezed his hand, and kept waiting.

 

**  
  


Stirring-twitching, stirring-twitching, hours later and Bucky was stirring and twitching again. Steve held his breath again. 

 

Bucky’s eyes opened, clear, and roamed the room. Steve bit his lip and waited for those eyes to reach him. 

 

_ Finally- _

 

Bucky smiled, small and crooked, and suddenly froze. “Stevie,” he whispered, voice parched and choked. “I can see ‘em again.” His voice was filled with building blocks and puzzle pieces, coming together to make something like a prayer and a song and a  _ thank you _ sent to the heavens that Steve couldn’t possibly believe was all for him. 

 

Steve grinned, feeling something wet smeared over his cheek. “Hey, Buck,” he choked out. He pressed Bucky’s hand closer to his cheek, turning his head to hold his lips to the palm. “How do you feel?” he asked, muffled.

 

“I can seem them again,” Bucky repeated excitedly. “Your eyes are so fucking blue,” he said softly. It looked like he was attempting a smirk, but he was smiling too hard behind it. “Get to see this masterpiece in full color,” he joked, poking Steve in the chest with his free (metal) hand. 

 

Steve hefted out a broken laugh. “It’s all yours,” he said. He felt put together and broken in two. 

 

Bucky sighed, clearly tired again, and rested his head back against the pillows. His eyes roamed and he licked his dry lips, and Steve wished he’d woken up somewhere more colorful than a hospital room. 

 

Starting to creep up on him was this feeling, this deep need to show Bucky everything all over again, to give him the whole world and nothing less. There was this overwhelming rush of love and affection, filling Steve’s lungs and he couldn’t fucking breathe. 

 

To compensate, he held his breath and leaned over, pressing his face into Bucky’s chest and feeling hands in his hair and lips on the back of his neck. “We’re here,” he heard Bucky mutter. “We’re okay.”

 

“We’re okay,” Steve said, letting out the breath and feeling the sun inside of his throat.

 

**  
  


When Bucky falls asleep soon after, Steve gets out his phone and texts Bruce.

 

**_Steve:_ ** _ care to stop at the store for me? _

 

**_Bruce:_ ** _ Not a problem. What do you need? _

 

Half an hour later, Steve is spreading various colorful plants and flowers around Bucky’s room, placing them in easily visible areas. 

 

“Thank you,” Steve said to the roses in his hand.

 

“There was a sale,” Bruce replied nonchalantly. They ignored the rest of everything in the gratitude.

 

**  
  


When Bucky woke up again he was clearer-gazed than the first time. He snuffled and raised his head up, making a grab at Steve when he saw him. 

 

As the two moved closer, Steve could see the moment that Bucky saw all the flowers, saw all the colors. He grinned, looking out of practice (Steve’s heart breaks with every new moment) and looked at Steve, grabbing his hand. “Thanks,” he rasped.

 

Bruce behind them placed a plastic cup of water on Bucky’s bedside table and quietly left the room. Thankful, Bucky reached for it and sat up some more to drink.

 

“Y’know,” Bucky said conversationally, “I feel pretty good for a formerly brainwashed assassin that’s recently had yet another surgery into my head.”

 

Steve tried to laugh, but it died in his throat. “Buck,” he shook his head. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” his voice broke over everything the words meant. It was years of pining and years of war and years of uneasy unconsciousness and years of his Bucky, his goddamn  _ soul _ , hurting and hurting and nothing Steve could do about it except go back in time and just fuckin’ be better. Steve could’ve never been better, never been the soulmate Bucky deserved. 

 

“Bucky,” he said, hesitant. “Why’d you wait to have the surgery?”

 

Bucky looked over at Steve, unworried but looking like he was considering how much to share. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Everything’s alright.” He grabbed Steve’s hand and squeezed it. 

 

Steve rubbed his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles and brought them to his lips before speaking again. “But why did you risk it?”

 

Bucky sighed and ran his teeth over with his tongue. “Didn’t wanna see ‘em if it wasn’t gonna be you,” he muttered.

 

Steve scrunched up his eyebrows. “What? What do you mean?”

 

Bucky smiled fondly at him, but it looked tired around the edges. Worn. Steve wondered if it was him that wore at and tired Bucky. “I didn’t want to have to live with the colors if I couldn’t live in them with you.”

 

“What would have stopped that? Why-” Steve was just utterly confused, bewildered-

 

“Well that’s why I called and asked to be sure. Be sure that you wanted me to have all my colors back,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, bringing their joint hands to press against his own lips.

 

Steve stared. His already carnaged, already pummeled, already burst heart squeezed painfully. “You thought-” he stopped, mouth open. “Bucky-”

 

“Listen, I just wanted-”

 

And Steve got his breath back, got his words- “There will never be a time, there never  _ has _ been a time, when I will not want to belong to you as completely as I possibly can, when I will not want you by my side for forever and ever. It just won’t fuckin- it won’t happen. I love you and I want you for as long as you’ll take me. Please, please believe me.” 

 

Bucky was quiet, jaw ticking and teeth biting at his lip. “Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, Stevie, I believe you.”

 

Steve looked at him, his eyes roaming over his face, searching for the proof that Bucky would never again, not for a moment, feel like he was anything but wanted, anything but the best goddamn thing in Steve’s life.

 

He saw Bucky look at him, look him in the eyes, and lick his bottom lip before nodding. “Yeah, okay.” (It was maybe the desperation in Steve’s eyes that convinced him.) “You know I love you, too, right?” He asked, eyes still crunched up and anxious.

 

Steve smiled a smile and nodded. “Yeah, Buck,” he said softly. “I know.”

 

**  
  


They went home a week later, because Bucky, unlike Steve, was pretty good at sticking to the doctors’ wishes. They had him all set up in New York with a fancy psychologist anyway, so he could continue with his therapy.

 

“Isn’t it weird, though? Telling somebody, practically a stranger, everything?” Steve asked him on their way home. “And now it’s another stranger.”

 

Bucky shrugged, mouth twisted to one side. “I just tell them about things. Sometimes I think I’ll be able to scare them with what I say, but they always keep a straight face. It’s almost like a game.”

 

Steve considered. “I kinda hope you don’t win,” he said finally.

 

Bucky smirked and looked up at him, squeezing their hands where they were held between them.

 

**  
  


Sam was there when they got into the Tower, on the common floor. “Hey man,” he said to Steve.

 

Steve looked at him and smiled, genuinely smiled. He’d been reminded for a minute, seeing Sam, of their long months searching. He’d felt that plummeting feeling in his stomach, that dread for the next morning that came after such little sleep, that empty nothingness of the time in between. And then he’d remembered: it was over.

 

He had Bucky back again.

 

He had Bucky back again, and they were both seeing colors, and the only wars were the ones in their heads, and those were easily pushed to the side. Steve’s shoulders dropped down from where they’d bunched at his ears, and he looked over at Bucky because he could. 

 

“Hey,” he said to Sam. “How’ve you been?”

 

**  
  


After a quick chat with Sam and the promise of the next day, Bucky and Steve headed to Steve’s floor. The elevator ride was quiet, no words needed for the soft moment. Their words were in glances, in smiles and laughter and the colors around them both.

 

When the elevator opened up, the floor was darkened. Not completely black, though, because JARVIS was a smart artificial intelligence. Steve reached to the side of the wall and flipped on the manual light switch. There was a soft glow, yellow bulbs rather than the bright whites Tony had put in when Steve’d first moved in. 

 

The rooms were all pretty bare, the lack of time spent really living in them given away by gathered dusts and perfect furniture. Bucky looked around and wandered over to the couch, flopping down tiredly. He looked up at Steve and sleepily patted the space next to him.

 

“Hi,” he said when Steve sat.

 

“Hi,” Steve replied with a small smile.

 

It was quiet after that, while they pressed into each other as close as they could with clothes still being in the picture. It was quiet but for the harsh breathing and brush of skin against skin. They couldn’t fucking hold on tight enough, couldn’t-

 

“Get it off, get it off,” Bucky choked, yanking at Steve’s t-shirt. Steve quickly complied, leaning back to pull it from his torso and throw it somewhere on the living room floor. He collapsed back down, pushing his face into Bucky’s neck and making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a hymn. 

 

Bucky scooted back to yank off his own shirt, and then it was skin on skin and that was all that mattered, all that counted, all that would ever count-

 

Bucky let out a broken sigh and Steve wrapped his arms around him so tightly, so goddamn tightly-

 

they were kissing, and it wasn’t exactly new except for the fact that it was, they were free and they had time and they were okay-

 

Steve moaned as Bucky reached up to yank on Steve’s hair, to pull at it in such a sweet pain-

 

**  
  


The next day was the happiest Steve had felt in years. 

 

Everybody was together, and Steve could not stop a smile from creeping into his face. He could hold Bucky and talk to Sam and Natasha at the same time, while even still listening to Tony ramble on to Bruce and Pepper. He could hear a huff of laughter from his soulmate while listening to his best friends bicker about something. He could squeeze Buck’s hand and look at Nat’s winking face simultaneously. 

 

He could look in a mirror and recognize the figure in the glass. 

 

It was a good day.

 

**  
  


Nat kept on staring at Clint, who would occasionally catch her gaze and smile back. 

 

“How about a movie- anyone?” Tony glanced around the room. 

 

“Wizard of Oz,” Bucky muttered into Steve’s shirt where he had his face. 

 

“What was that, Mr. and Mr. Rogers?” Tony asked distractedly. 

 

Bucky scowled at him, turning only marginally away from Steve’s chest. “Put on the Wizard of Oz,” he said. 

 

“Wonderful pick,” Tony exclaimed, and the lights dimmed as JARVIS set it up. 

 

Steve watched the opening scenes lazily, running a hand up and down Bucky’s back and marveling at the bright purple color of his shirt. 

 

Looking up more closely at the screen, he winced as he remembered the black and white beginning. He quickly went back to looking at Bucky, counting all the different shades he could find. 

 

“Steve,” Bucky mumbled. “Stevie, you're crushing my hand.” It was quiet enough that nobody else heard. Everybody was sort of wrapped up in their own quiet conversations, anyway. 

 

“Sorry,” Steve whispered. He brought the hand in question to his face, smiling softly at Bucky. “Missed you,” he added. 

 

“I know, baby,” Bucky said. “I missed you, too.” 

 

“We’re okay now,” Steve said. 

 

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky smiled back. “We’re gonna be.”

 

**  
  


The next day, after his first appointment, Bucky’s new therapist asked to see Sam. At first, Bucky was skeptical, didn't want anyone else knowing what he’d said, but a look at Steve and Steve’s concerned face had him allowing it. Sam was there within minutes, and the two psychologists talked alone for about twenty minutes. 

 

When they came out of the small office, Sam didn't look disgusted or horrified, didn't seem shocked or scared. He just looked slightly sad and tired. 

 

“Come on guys,” he said. The three men walked outside and towards the Tower. 

 

“What was that all about?” Steve asked quickly, grabbing Bucky’s hand. Sam sighed. 

 

“Well, first of all, I don't like him. He's a shit psychologist who takes into account the patient’s reputation more than he focuses on their words. He’s scared of you, Barnes, and I'm going to be in contact with SHIELD to get you someone new.” 

 

Bucky snorted dryly. “Why’d he need to tell you that?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “He didn't. That's my own personal assessment. He told me he needed to confer with a professional that was close to you. Which is bullshit. He should've talked to you. I'm not even sure how legal it was that he came to me.” 

 

“But what did he say?” Steve asked anxiously. Sam sighed again. 

 

“He thinks you're not processing everything, Barnes. Thinks your numb to most of your experiences.” 

 

Bucky blinked. “Isn't that a good thing?” 

 

Sam’s mouth twisted up and smoothed back out. “Not necessarily. Alright hold up. I'm gonna speak as a friend, and not as another psychologist, okay? Because a psychologist wouldn't say this.” 

 

Steve and Bucky both nodded uneasily. 

 

“I think that for now, you not processing things is probably unhealthy, but also probably kind of a good thing. Because really, your memory is still not at 100%, you're still settling in with Steve, and maybe some time to try and let those aspects calm down would be beneficial before you start trying to process the horrible situation you've been forced through.” 

 

They stopped at a crosswalk. Bucky swallowed. “So what do I do?” 

 

Steve looked between the two and bit the inside of his cheek. 

 

Sam shrugged. “Keep doing therapy, but wait ‘til I ask SHIELD about someone else. The therapy will help the most.” 

 

“Alright,” Bucky said, and watched the light, waiting for it to turn green.

 

**  
  


Natasha was acting strangely. She was quieter than normal, seemed almost distracted. Steve nearly recognized the behavior, but not to the point that he could place it. It was just outside of his reach. 

 

Steve asked her about it.

 

“Nat, is everything okay?” They were in Steve’s living room, watching some sitcom that Natasha liked. Bucky was at the shooting range with Clint. 

 

It was stressful, being away from Bucky, but the both of them knew that they needed some space apart, even if it was only a little compared to their time together. (They deserved their time together, trading touches and breaths and just being close. Talking about nothings and everythings. They smiled together.) 

 

“I'm fine. This episode is not entertaining,” she said disappointedly. Reaching over to grab the remote and turn it off, she shoved her feet under Steve’s legs. “Can you tell me about you and Bucky? From the beginning?” 

 

Steve smiled. “Yeah. We met when we were five and six.” 

 

“He was the older one, yeah?” 

 

“Yep. But now, with the years counted up and awake, I think he’s technically much older than me. But neither of us cares to count.” Steve paused. Sometimes he wondered how to count his years, if he should count only the ones lived or if he should count his time under ice or if he should add to either figure the weight of his wars. But it didn't matter, because to him, the only ones that counted were the ones spent with his soul. 

 

“I don't remember much about before I got my colors, but afterwards I could tell you every second,” he said, feeling tugs at his heart when he thought about all that time spent waiting. 

 

“How old were you when you realized? When you saw the colors?” Natasha had her eyes closed, face deceptively blank. 

 

“I was ten, I'm pretty sure. Sometimes I wonder how I loved him so early- if it even really was love so early. But I think maybe my insides, my soul, I guess, knew before my mind could even really comprehend. I don't think I realized how fucking much- how much I really loved him until a lot later.” 

 

Steve’s eyes were beginning to look further than the walls of the room, to look past everything that was the now and back a hundred years. Back to the beginning of time (green grass in a sunny park). He was thinking as he went along, about everything, and about what he thought he already knew. 

 

He knew, he absolutely knew, that it was worth it. That the knowledge of Bucky’s near-love was worth having him to hold, having him to feel. 

 

But if sometimes he felt like it wasn't enough, if sometimes he was sent even further into hell because of his selfishness, well. 

 

That was his business.

 

**  
  


Natasha was gone the next morning. 

 

Nobody was too worried, figured a mission or something had come up, one of those classified slices of knowledge that Natasha seemed to hoard. And besides, Nat was always one to slip away at nothing, to be there one day and absent the next. It was in her person. 

 

Bruce seemed to know something that the others didn't, but nobody bothered him about it. Natasha would be back soon.

 

**  
  


Steve glanced over at the table where his phone was buzzing. He lazily slid his eyes from that side of the room to where he was, lounging on the couch, hand stretched over the bare expanse of skin on Bucky’s stomach. 

 

That stretch between waistline and ribcage was something hallowed. It was grounds where Steve could be buried, as he is now, hands following where he can pull and press his face into, that stomach where he could breathe easy. He could run his fingertips over a breadth of skin and watch shivered movements of the body next to him, watch the twitching of lips on the face he cherished. 

 

The buzzing of his phone didn't stop. 

 

Bucky smirked and rolled away, and Steve thanked Tony silently for how large the couches in this tower were. 

 

“You should get that,” Bucky muttered, yawning. Steve smiled and got up. 

 

“Rogers,” he said quickly to the other side of the line. He didn't recognize the number but he had a feeling about who it might've been. 

 

“Steve,” Nat said, and Steve was right. “I'll be back in a couple days. Everything’s alright.” And the line went dead. 

 

It wasn't worrying. It was the usual kind of check-in they did with each other. 

 

“Natasha’s gonna be back in a couple days, probably by the end of the week,” Steve told Bucky. “She sounds fine.”

 

“Good,” Bucky said. He pulled Steve back down to the couch.

 

**  
  


Four days later, and Natasha made a quick appearance to her teammates before grabbing Clint’s hand and dragging him off. 

 

Two days after that, Steve got another call from another unknown number. 

 

“Rogers.”

 

“Steve,” she said. He had never heard her so childlike, almost- giddy. “I see them, I see them for Clint,” she laughed. 

 

“Holy shit, Nat,” Steve said, shocked. 

 

“After Barnes, I got this feeling, and I went to the same facility and had them look and-” she stopped, out of breath. “Steve, I've never felt like this.”

 

“I know, I know,” Steve smiled. 

 

“I'm so fucking- happy,” she whispered. “He’s seen them for me for years, and I knew that, and I loved him, I just didn't think, because...”

 

“I'm so happy for you,” Steve said genuinely. He could practically hear the smile from the other side. 

 

“Me too, Steve. Me too.” 

 

The line clicked off.

 

**  
  


The tower was quiet for a few days. Bucky got approval from Sam for a new therapist, Clint and Natasha acted almost the same as always (but with ultra disgusting PDA), Tony was off vacationing with Pepper, and Bruce was working on something new in his lab. 

 

Steve had nightmares a few nights a week. Bucky was almost always up anyway to help him calm down. They held each other and turned on the lights. They’d painted a section of their ceiling with wild patterns and stripes and polka dots in all different colors. 

 

Missions were quick and simple. Ellen teased Steve for his newfound joy. When she offered to return the tablet Steve had left at the hospital, Steve told her to keep it. She smiled and gave him a quick, rough hug. 

 

Steve was sitting with Natasha on the couch a few good weeks later. Her feet were in his lap and Netflix was turned on. 

 

“Things are nice,” Steve said. 

 

“Yeah, they are.”

 

**  
  


Steve woke up with a start. 

 

In bed next to him, Bucky was safe and sound, and for once, actually sleeping. Steve could see a tint of orange in the shirt Bucky’d worn to bed. He could see the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, slow and even. He could hear muffled city noises outside his walls. 

 

Steve knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. It was one of those nights. He checked their clock, glowing on the bedside table, and sighed. 3:00 AM. 

 

He watched Bucky for a little while longer. He didn't move from his side of the bed except to slowly, carefully place an arm over Bucky, who stirred anyway. But he just scooched closer to Steve and fell back to sleep. It was rare, and Steve was glad for it. 

 

Steve passed some minutes, hours, just feeling Bucky’s back against his front, just reveling in the peace. He watched out his window as the sun rose, with reds and oranges and soft pinks. With his nightmare still calling for the attention of his brain and the clock only saying 5:04, he had to stop himself from waking Bucky up. 

 

He could still hear the heartbeat. He could still feel the breath. Bucky was still there. 

 

He buried his face into the back of Bucky’s neck and waited out some more time. Bucky needed the rest. Bucky needed the sleep. Bucky was always up for hours and hours and hours, he needed-

 

Bucky rolled over to face Steve, opening one eye. “Hey, Stevie,” he grumbled, voice scratchy and dry. 

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispered. “You should go back to sleep.”

 

“How long have you been awake?” Bucky asked, ignoring the reproach and already dragging his hands across Steve’s chest. Pulling him in, drawing a fistful of shirt towards himself and pressing his face into Steve’s neck. 

 

“Couple hours,” Steve said. He ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Sunrise was nice.” Bucky hummed. 

 

“Nightmare?”

 

“Mhmm. But it's okay. You're okay.”

 

Bucky squeezed Steve tighter.

 

**  
  


There’s something strange about how time passes right before the storm, but it’s only noticeable after, when you can look back on it. Living it, there’s nothing rushed, nothing slowed. Looking back, it's like watching yourself through molasses while you hear the clock tick tick tick tick ticking away all the precious moments you have left before-

 

**  
  


Steve’s joints ached for a long time after his next mission. The mission was not strenuous, was not difficult. Steve ignored it. Steve could not afford those kinds of aches. 

 

(He’d just gotten Bucky back, dammit.)

 

**  
  


One day, while Bucky was at a movie with Clint and Natasha (Bucky was working on being separate, on enjoying separate things, Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out for fun-) Steve couldn't catch his breath. The air was too thin, and for a moment Steve wondered how Stark’s security and vents could have been penetrated, could have been compromised- 

 

Steve caught his breath. 

 

Must’ve gone down the wrong pipe.

 

**  
  


Bucky came back from a therapy appointment one day wearing a smile that glimmered with mischief and Steve almost drowned in it. Drowning wasn't so bad when it was Bucky, when it was with Bucky instead of after Bucky, when-

 

“Come with me,” Bucky said. He grabbed Steve’s hand and laughed. 

 

“Where?” Steve asked, smiling at the twinkle so familiar and so old, hidden in Bucky’s eyes. 

 

“Anywhere,” Bucky answered, and pulled him along, into the elevator and down to the lobby and out of the tower and onto the streets. 

 

Drowning wasn't so bad when it was salvation.

 

**  
  


The future was chaotic, colorful, careless. Too bright, like the people who had been in charge of the color schemes hadn't found their other halves.

 

Bucky pointed at everything new and grinned when he found some new futuristic characteristic that HYDRA hadn't felt important enough to program into him. He commented on the lack of flying cars and followed it up with an analysis on everything that was better than flying cars. His eyes held hope. 

 

“I think we’ve done it, Stevie,” he said. He was looking up at a billboard, neons blinding even in the daylight. “I think we made it.” 

 

The future was  _ illuminated _ . Steve could, maybe, love it.

 

**  
  


When they returned to their own living room that day, Steve plopped down hard on the couch. He was- tired. 

 

Steve stretched his neck and tried to come up with something that could've tired him out. He drew a blank. 

 

It might've been concerning, except that Bucky sat right down on his lap and smirked and had a thigh on either side of Steve and-

 

**  
  


That had been a good day.

 

**  
  


That had been the last good day.

 

**  
  


Bucky’d left early the next morning for a day out with Clint, something about “bro bonding” that Nat had brought up because, happy as she was, she was a little scared and felt the need for a barrier after weeks of constant love. It weirded her out, and she may have panicked, but if Clint hadn’t been the type to understand, he wouldn’t have seen her colors. 

 

Steve was on his way down to Natasha’s floor, to let her know she could talk to him if she needed, when-

 

his head exploded, his nerves and his bones and his muscles and everything that was inside, everything that made him up, set on fire, and 

 

Steve had only ever felt this pain once before, in a lab and with Peggy and Howard and Erskine standing over him, and it had been over in seconds, a minute at most. But this- this would not stop. 

 

Steve felt the floor of the elevator hit his cheek, felt the stabbing all around him only intensify as he curled up on the ground, felt fear and panic and his vision wavered and he thought

 

_ Bucky _

 

**  
  


“Ms Romanov, there is a situation in the elevator-” 

 

Nat missed the slight anxiety in JARVIS’s voice, and paid little attention. “Tell Steve I don't want to talk.”

 

“Ms Romanov, please, he is-”

 

“JARVIS,” she barked, about to go on when she was interrupted. 

 

“Steve is currently incapacitated on the elevator floor.” 

 

Natasha missed the curtness, too, in his voice there, because she was already running. 

 

The elevator door on her floor was standing open, and inside, there was indeed a Steve, but he was contorted and she could see bone sticking out of his body. Immediately, she dropped to his side and tried to identify any other wounds. All she saw was- it looked like-

 

He was shrinking?

 

“JARVIS, what happened?” Nat said curtly. 

 

“I am unaware of any altercation, but scans are picking up an unknown chemical running throughout his body.”

 

“Fuck,” she whispered anxiously. “Call Tony, and Bruce- and fuck, get Barnes and Clint back here-”

 

“No!” Steve yelled, the first word among his agonized cries. “No, don't tell- don't tell Bucky, please,” he stopped, pain overcoming him. 

 

“Ms Romanov?” The AI seemed almost frantic for an answer. “Masters Stark and Banner have been alerted, what should I do about the others?” 

 

“Hold off for now JARVIS, just get Tony and Bruce right now,” Natasha replied, starting to stop the blood flow from various places where bone was poking through skin. Steve’s breaths were gasping. 

 

“Natasha? Steve?” was called out from a separate elevator (what residential area needed two elevators? what sort of tower-) 

 

“Tony, in here!” Natasha called. “I don't know what happened, it looks like-”

 

Bruce had entered as well, and looked ashen. “It looks like he’s reverting back to his un-serumed self.”

 

**  
  


Throughout bouts of pained cries and the horrendous sounds of breaking and reconstructing bone and reconstructing _ muscle _ and  _ Steve _ , the supersoldier said little. It mostly had to do with nobody telling Bucky what happened and keeping Bucky out and in some delirious moments, asking for Peggy or Howard. Tony would flinch at that last one and try to respond. 

 

“Cap, buddy, it looks like it's going to be over soon- just hang in there. Do you want Bucky?” He wouldn't give up on asking. 

 

“ _ No,  _ no, please, don't tell him-” a sob “-it hurts,” he moaned. 

 

Bruce and Tony had been keeping him as comfortable as he could, moving him to a bed in one of Natasha’s rooms, but there didn't seem to be much risk of anything other than pain. While the serum itself was clearly failing, it seemed some aspect of the accelerated healing factor remained, hence the speedy reconstruction of the body that was tearing itself down. Admittedly, it was reconstructing in a less-than-optimal form, but that was alright for now. 

 

“What could've cause it?” Natasha was asking. 

 

“If I may,” JARVIS interrupted the solemn scene, “it seems the chemical originated from the location of the stab wound the Captain received directly before Sergeant Barnes’ surgery.”

 

“That was months ago,” Tony said, frustration shining through his voice. 

 

“Must’ve been slow acting on purpose,” Bruce murmured. He wiped a hand over his face. 

 

“Long enough for us to get complacent,” Natasha added. “Did he say anything to anyone about feeling off?” 

 

Tony and Bruce shook their heads. 

 

“It's possible he didn't notice anything,” Bruce said, almost wistful. 

 

“But does that sound like the Cap we know and love?” Tony asked with a dark twist of his mouth. 

 

“Goddammit, Steve,” Natasha said.

 

**  
  


The worst of it seemed over, and their friend was five-foot-full of it, saying he was fine and he was alright and just please don't call Bucky, please, and he looked genuinely terrified and about a second away from sobbing. It seemed like he was still a little delirious, even, from the pain, maybe, but maybe he was just too tired to put up his usual fronts.

 

At one point Natasha had had enough, and she picked up her cell. Dialing it brought Steve so close to hysterics that he nearly brought on an asthma attack (surreal was a word Natasha didn't use often, but damn.) When Bucky picked up-

 

“Can you give the phone to Clint?” She asked quietly, staring at Steve. The captain was still gasping, but desperately trying to control his breathing. He still looked panicked, terrified. 

 

“Sure,” Bucky said. He was calm, content. Natasha swallowed. 

 

“Nat?” Clint’s voice filtered through, and she felt calmer just hearing it. “What's up?”

 

“Could you- I hate to ask. I'm sorry. Could you guys stay out a little longer than planned? I don't want you to feel unappreciated, I love you, I really do, but-” and Natasha forgot that she couldn't pull this stuff with Clint. Forgot that the lie she’d spouted that would've worked so well on anybody else didn't hold up. 

 

“What's going on?” Clint asked. His voice had gone quiet, serious. 

 

“Give the phone back to Bucky,” Natasha sighed, and handed it to Steve. He looked panic-stricken, yet again, but took it almost gently. 

 

“Bucky? Bucky are you there?” Suddenly Steve seemed to realize something and switched the phone to his other ear. 

 

“Bucky,” he said, voice cracking. “Do you- can you still see your colors? Are they still there?”

 

Natasha’s eyebrows creased as Steve let out a visible breath of relief. “Please, baby, stay out, with Clint- no, I'm not hurt, I'm fine, just stay away- please, please, I love you,” Steve’s breath was picking up speed again, newly-tiny torso straining. “Please,” he repeated on a cry. 

 

Suddenly he dropped the phone. He looked at the other three people in the room. “You guys, you can't let him in, you have to keep him out, he’s coming, don't tell him-” 

 

“Steve,” Natasha interrupted, seizing his hand. “Tell me why Bucky can't know.”

 

“He's gonna lose them, he's gonna-”

 

“He's going to lose what?” She asked intently. 

 

“His  _ colors,  _ they're gonna leave,  _ he’s  _ gonna leave, and I can't,” Steve sobbed, “I can't do it again.” His hand felt, for once, not as if it were dwarfing Natasha’s. 

 

Tony and Bruce were staring, various degrees of discomfort on their faces, but neither Natasha not Steve paid them any attention. 

 

“Why would he stop seeing his colors?” Nat asked, gently. Steve shook his head. He attempted composing himself, finally slumping down on the bed he’d been laying down in. He looked defeated. 

 

“He only ever loved me after he saw me with the new fancy body,” he admitted. “Only ever saw colors after he saw me like that.” His voice was wrecked. 

 

Tony, Bruce, and Natasha all looked shocked, maybe even horrified, in their own ways. 

 

“Steve,” Natasha whispered. “That's not true. He loves you for so much more than that.”

 

“No, he doesn't. And now he’s gonna see me back like this and all his colors will go away.” Steve closed his eyes. “I don't want to do it again,” he said desperately. 

 

“Do what again?” 

 

“Pretending it doesn't hurt.” 

 

Tony let out a harsh breath upon hearing the words. “You don't ever gotta pretend, Cap. And Barnes will love you no matter what, I know it.”

 

Steve ignored them all and fell asleep.

 

**  
  


“Where is he?  _ Where is he?” _ Barnes was yelling from the hallway. As he neared, he shouted again. “Steve! Guys, is he okay? What happened?  _ Where is he? _ ”

 

Natasha and Tony shared a glance, and finally Natasha exited the bedroom and found Bucky stalking towards the door, fear in his eyes. 

 

“He’s fine. And you better get your ass in here, and if you can't see your colors when you see him, you better goddamn  _ pretend _ to when he wakes up.” There was murder in her eyes, and Barnes had seen enough of that for a lifetime. “I don't think we’ll have anything to worry about though,” she added, deflating a little bit. 

 

“What's going on?” Bucky asked desperately. 

 

“Just,” Natasha said. “Come in.” 

 

Bucky rushed past, pushing open the door and searching the room with frantic eyes. 

 

At first, with the sigh of relief and the drop down to his knees next to the bed, he didn't even notice. He grabbed Steve’s hands, and he pressed them to his lips, and then-

 

“Oh.” Bucky looked around at the others in the room. “What happened? He alright besides this?” 

 

“As far as we can tell,” Bruce said. 

 

“Thank God,” Bucky said. He rested his head down next to Steve’s. 

 

“Barnes, what the hell did you do to him?” Tony blurted it out, something damn near to anger in his eyes. “You lying to him about seeing your colors, huh? You holding him, telling him he’s only got his body going for him, make him small? The fuck’s your game, Barnes?”

 

Bucky was staring at him like he’d grown three heads. “What the hell are you talking about?” He looked angry and hurt, the expression in his eyes similar to how he’d looked when Natasha had first seen him coming back, with Sam and Steve in the car going home. 

 

“I'm talking about how your  _ boy  _ here sobbed himself into an asthma attack because he thought you'd be leaving him!” Tony was fuming, his voice dripping with contempt. 

 

Natasha watched Bucky’s face. It was contorting with shock, pain. He hadn't known. 

 

“Tony,” she said curtly. “Think about it. The timeline- Bucky saw colors when Steve joined the war. Whether or not Bucky meant anything, I think self-loathing and suffer-in-silence Steve here could've come up with this conclusion by himself.” 

 

If it had been 2012 and Tony had been younger, he would've questioned Natasha’s evaluation of their good captain. But he was older now, and he put his genius brain to work for once. They’d all heard from an exasperated Bucky, in bits and pieces, about the constant fights when Steve was younger. And they'd all seen Steve being unnecessarily reckless during missions. And Tony thought about Fury muttering about “ _ should've left him in the ocean _ my ass” and all the implications of that. 

 

And then Tony thought about himself, and his own conclusions that anybody only ever wanted him for the fame and for the money, that nobody would've given him a second glance if it hadn’t been for that. How he knew (he did, he did) that Pepper loved him, but that she probably wouldn't have even entered his life without his persona outside of his soul. And slowly, Tony stopped glaring at Bucky and started glaring into space, face turned away from the rest of the Avengers. 

 

“He thinks that?” Bucky whispered. He looked horrified. He cleared his throat. “He thinks I’m only with him because of his looks?”

 

“It seems so,” Bruce said quietly. 

 

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky’s eyes were wild, and he dragged a quick hand over his face. “Fuck, Steve,” he mumbled under his breath. 

 

Natasha signaled to the others in the room, and soon it was just Steve and Bucky. As it had always been.

 

**  
  


The room was quiet. Steve was laying still, asleep. A flat screen TV was playing some fuckin cooking show. The whole setting was pristine. 

 

Bucky would've felt more natural, more in tune with the space around him, if there'd been some noise. Some rudimentary tech making some rudimentary sound. A goddamn rickety fan. Anything. 

 

But Stark’s tower was just a little too put together for that. It was like the Stark himself was trying to compensate for... every single one of the tower’s inhabitants. Maybe there were enough rickety fans without the actual machinery busting down.

 

Steve was shifting restlessly. The morphine they'd given him was clearly wearing off, and Bucky could see him twitch in ways that indicated old aches they'd both thought of as gone. A twinge in the face that meant back, a shift of the arm that meant chest. Bucky could still read him like a book, like a bible whose verses were far too known, and it was- 

 

Fuck. It hurt so bad because he must've watched these expressions rapt with attention so many times and yet he hadn't even  _ realized  _ before he saw Steve with Peggy-

 

And now Steve thought, apparently has thought since forever, that Bucky only loved him for his body, for his looks. Bucky wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to go back in time and knock the fuck out everybody who’d ever made Steve feel inferior. Even more so, he wanted to smack himself in the face for ever even allowing Steve to think that for a single moment. 

 

Most of all, though, he wanted Steve to wake up so he could fix it the best he could.

 

**  
  


When Steve opened his eyes, he could feel immediately that it had not been a dream. There was a pressure on his lungs and an ache throughout a too-small-too-heavy body for him to be able to trick himself into thinking it was a dream. 

 

There were hands around his. He inhaled sharply and tugged away on instinct, and then Bucky was hushing him and coaxing his face towards his left. “Stevie?”

 

“Buck, I’m sorry-” he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to ask whether or not the colors would be there (they wouldn’t be).

 

“Steve, baby, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Bucky cooed, and Steve still hadn’t been able to bring his eyes up past the hands intertwined at his heart.

 

“Please don’t-” Steve swallowed. “Please don’t leave.” And  _ fuck _ , he was a  _ goddamned coward, _ a no-good begging son of a  _ bitch _ . Part of him hoped Bucky would just stand up and go now, so he didn’t have to see Steve like this, a groveling fucking  _ baby _ , and practically the size of one too, jesus  _ christ.  _

 

“Stevie, I ain’t gonna leave you, dumbass,” Bucky said, and Steve still didn’t know what to say. Thanks? Thanks for having pity and staying even though your colors are gone? Thank you for not leaving me on my own in a world where I barely know my own name, let alone what to do if I’m by myself again, if I’m fucking alone again-

 

“It was never your body, Steve,” Bucky said, and Steve froze. “Never your goddamn  _ looks _ , you punk,” he continued, voice wrecked.

 

“Don’t lie, Bucky.”

 

“Ain’t lying! All it took was seeing you with a pretty dame, seeing you chattin’ it up with somebody who really had a chance with you. That was it for me, Steve. Finally realized what had been in front of my face the entire goddamn time.” Bucky searched for Steve’s face, searched and tried to will his eyes up to meet Bucky’s, to find that absolution, that forgiveness. “Please,” he murmured.

 

“I’m not stupid, Buck, don’t pretend, even  _ Fury _ could see it, see I wasn’t really needed, said so himself before that goddamn mission-”

 

“The hell are you talking about? Steve, please, Jesus, please, I need you more than I need anything, need you to forgive me for letting you think-”

 

“Letting me think what? Huh, Buck? That maybe you really could love me for me, that maybe you loved me like I love you, that maybe we were- that I could-” he was sobbing. It was fucking disgusting, and he couldn’t believe what he could let himself fall into being. Steve hated himself for it. 

 

“Steve, baby, no, please,” Bucky’s voice cracked. “I can still see them, please, I’ve still got my colors. They-” Bucky couldn’t even say they’d never left, and he hated himself for it, for everything he’d ever done to make Steve think like this. “Stevie, please. I love you.”

 

Steve shuddered. “I want-”  _ I want to believe you. _ “But you always- always loved my muscles, how I looked after the serum, always. I’m not- not a masterpiece anymore, Buck.”

 

“Fuck that. I don’t give a shit. Never loved you ‘cuz of any of that. Just need you.”  _ Eloquent as always, Barnes _ . Couldn’t even say the right words, the  _ you are always my masterpiece, no matter how you look _ . “You’re mine, Steve, and I don’t care about the rest.”

 

None of anything they ever wanted to say comes out right. None of it. 

 

“Bucky,” Steve said, and finally looked up. “You ain’t lying?”

 

“Couldn’t ever lie about the blue of your eyes.” Bucky gently took Steve’s hand again and brought it to his lips.

 

“I love you,” Steve said, and he still wasn’t sure. 

 

“I love you, too,” Bucky said, and he’d never been surer. 

 

There was no rhythm to be had. No ticking down, no waiting, no pulse between one breath and another. There was a fragility, certainly, a new rawness to everything. But there was enough time to talk over all of it, for them to reassure each other and hold each other and grab on because otherwise they might fly away. There was time enough to press into each other, to in this singular moment forget about everything else and just feel skin on skin. Two hands held together. Steve and Bucky. 

 

Colors and time and motion. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed- please let me know what you thought about it!


End file.
